The Ring Finger
by Niko
Summary: It was a ring worn on his third finger, the metal band looking heavy and cold against the delicate digit which bore the adornment's moniker-the ring finger, a place reserved for this mark of fidelity long since standing in forgotten tradition. And John Watson, for the life of him, could not remember when first his best friend wore it.
1. Chapter 1

Gunmetal grey was in stark contrast against ivory flesh, a band of metal now settled between the long, sinister digits of the detective's subordinate hand. It was a ring worn on his third finger, the metal knot looking heavy and cold against the delicate digit which bore the adornment's moniker-the ring finger, a place reserved for this mark of fidelity long since standing in forgotten tradition. There was no discernible reason to wear a ring there outside a promise and far less reason in keeping with the man's discriminating nature. Sherlock wore a watch because it was useful and gloves for much the same. He did not decorate his person in purposeless accessories but there it was all the same, glossy and perfectly sized to his large but fine-boned finger. And John Watson, for the life of him, could not remember when first his best friend wore it.

Molly had been the first to point it out, issuing her query with the admission she'd noticed it before but considered it might be a one-off sort of thing. Sherlock didn't wear jewelry. He didn't even wear ties or the occasional cufflinks. For three weeks she said she'd seen him gloveless with the ring settled in the same place each time. What was the ring for? It was a perfectly reasonable question-especially for one rather obviously smitten with the abrasive man. Sherlock's simple and dismissive shrug left much to desired in way of explanation but cases were on, more important things requiring his attention than a comment about the sudden appearance of a ring on his left hand. It didn't stop being curious just because it apparently didn't matter to Sherlock. If anything it made it more suspect. Now where John couldn't recall having seen it before, the dark ring had become a beacon for his attention every time he saw the naked hand with its simple, polished burden.

* * *

Sitting on the sofa, paper held firmly in his tired hands, John read the day's news with a thoughtful frown amidst the tireless tuning of Sherlock's violin. G, D, A & E all rose and fell from their sharps and flats to hum with great assurance in their proper tune. John had spent enough time on clarinet to wince while a string sang sour, chin tilting in the direction of the pull till Sherlock eased it into proper accord. The E string always made his teeth set on edge, just waiting for the snap as the thin wire sang higher and higher, the string pulling tighter and tighter. Sherlock was adept but strings were fickle. Today's strings were perfect, however, and soon the taut horse hairs of the bow were scratching out a pleasant sound far from the repetition of tuning and instead following scales and melodic forms under the press and slide of Sherlock's left-hand fingers. Bare fingers-John had checked. Other than the preoccupation with the ambient sound quality and placement of Sherlock's ring, however, he really and truly was reading the paper. Mostly.

Sort of.

Either way, it made for good cover.

The ring was something of a fascination for John despite attempts to follow Sherlock's example and ignore its presence altogether. Sally Donovan had once said he needed a hobby but somehow 'ring spotting' didn't seem like the traditional sort of time-sink anyone would have recommended. It was just too _odd_ not to focus on, though-rather like the moans that had once ushered up from Sherlock's mobile every time he received a text from a certain femme fatale. Sherlock's nature was singular and easily accounted for though sometimes difficult to accept or to forgive. Anything that deviated, anything that seemed too normal or too sentimental instantly ran red flags through John's mind like a warning relay just to be sure he was still paying attention. _That_ was Sherlock's ring. And in the same breath as John might be able to describe the paragraph he'd read on foreign affairs and current military action, he could, without checking, be reminded of where the ring was now just by the sound of Sherlock playing.

There were very few times when Sherlock removed his ring and playing his violin happened to be one of them. He kept it on the music stand while he fiddled and always replaced it once the instrument was put away. Part of his nature was to be regimented in his own funny ways and in that much his actions remained in keeping with what John knew of his friend. He also knew he slept with it on just from simple observations of it already being there at hours when otherwise Sherlock would have had to have remembered to put it on despite his usual, single-minded haste. It was there after showers but on the table if the science equipment was brought out. It was there when he texted and typed.

If it had been a gold ring that at least might have been _something_ to go off of. Maybe someone had died, some important male figure of whose property Sherlock came to inherit and found sentimental value in the small trinket. It was out of character, certainly, but then so was the very idea of Sherlock walking into a jeweler and buying a brand new ring for himself. There was nothing at all traditional about the dark metal band and just from the sheen of the it John could see very few nicks which might profess to some amount of wear and tear from a previous owner. By all accounts it was as new to the world as it was to Sherlock's hand, the one made for the other and simply put to rest.

It was very difficult to concentrate on Syria with his mind stuck on the most mundane, noncritical detail one could ever possibly fixate on. John flipped the pages of his paper just to seem as though he was making progress. Better to pretend than be called out on hiding behind the paper folds of newsworthy trivia. He couldn't even say he was all that busy listening to Sherlock instead. It was a nice tune but not one he hadn't heard before. His daylight serenades were more a moment of practice-as were their echoes past the midnight hour. It wasn't till the fire was lit and the lights dimmed that it could be called a true performance and with the autumn sun still hanging above the rooftops, this was, at best, a warm up.

Chinese take-away for dinner, then. Chopsticks and single-serving cartons were a favorite on nights when the strings were tuned and the bow dusted in dark amber. John would make the call in a bit, see about that bottle of wine they'd purchased the last time they'd stopped in the shops together, see that the logs were stacked and chairs arranged so that it didn't seem like a purposeful performance though they both catered to the expectation. It was them at their most civilized and John quite enjoyed it as a deviation from telly or nights out on the town. It was just Sherlock showing off, same as he always did, but not as he always allowed to be seen. John was special in that respect and there was something of an honor in each and every twilight concert over peking duck and pinot noir.

"Get that, would you?"

John tilted his paper down, face scrunching as he imagined how he might have not heard the doorbell. It didn't repeat. "Sorry, what?"

"My phone," Sherlock explained, giving the A string a pluck. "On the music stand. Check the messages and let Lestrade know how much I appreciate his silence if there's still nothing there."

John sighed but folded his paper, not exactly in the middle of anything. "Alright. What threat level are we talking about, here? Get you a case 'cause you're bored or get you a case before you set about to deduce London's citizens to tears and rage?"

Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, contemplating the choice seriously. It generally wasn't an exaggeration. "Tell him to find me a case or prepare me a cell. I think his imagination should provide the rest adequately."

John scoffed slightly with a chuckle, shaking his head as he crossed the short distance to the black stand set behind the green chair Sherlock was currently sunk into, chin caught in the violin's embrace under the bend of his own neck. They'd only been without a case for two days, hardly enough time to be quite _that_ restless, but it was fair to try all the same. Lestrade was a far more reliable source of entertainment than their own income-providing service. Clients came and went but crimes were almost assured. Surely something interesting would reveal itself.

John picked up the phone and did as he was asked, going ahead and recalling the local Chinese from the phone's memory as he raised a quick brow to Sherlock, no question asked but acknowledgement given. "Beef with black pepper sauce," the detective said and John nodded, lips pursed with pleasant assessment. Two of them, probably, or he'd be sorry once he smelled Sherlock's. Some scallops for a shared appetizer as well, and something with greens to prove they weren't solely carnivorous and promote some sort of 'healthy' eating. He loitered at the window and its musical accompaniments as he got them squared away, looking out at the street as he spoke until the glimmer of something smooth and polished caught his eye below the pages of sheet music beside him.

John wasn't immediately sure why he did it. Quick slip, no hesitation in his voice as he confirmed their order, his fingers closed around dark ring and then eased it in against the palm and out of sight. It was cool against his skin. Somehow he'd always imagined it to be hot. He finished his call and replaced and phone on the stand where Sherlock had left it reclining then simply walked back to his spot on the couch to continue reading his paper-all the while he secreted the dark band away from its habitual spot. It was stupid, really. Childish even. But perhaps a bit of genius too.

Sherlock all but ignored questions about the ring, _but_ if the ring really meant nothing to Sherlock, then he would probably search for it for a bit, get annoyed, and eventually forget about it. If instead he tore the place apart, he couldn't exactly pretend to John's face that the ring was still just some pointless adornment. It was Sherlock Holmes levels of sneaky bastard and John almost felt pleased with himself for reacting so coolly in the midst of the sudden opportunity. He'd give it back once he had Sherlock's true concerns on the matter outed and then Chinese and a private concert until wine made it all a bit funny anyway.

Sadly, it was Sherlock Holmes he was trying to fool. With one look towards his resting music, the man paused with a furrow of his brow, looked briefly at the floor, then stared curiously across the room at John. "Why did you take it?" he asked, genuinely confused and a little bit hurt if the shape of his argent eyes was any indication.

By all accounts, John had just walked over and stolen something from his best friend. Somehow he hadn't taken into consideration the fact that it looked very bad when caught. There was a reason Sherlock always looked like an asshole when he did these sorts of things. John's face felt warm with shame. "There really is no way to say this that doesn't make me sound like the villain from a children's story. I just, uh... I wanted to see how long you'd look for it."

"You wanted to gauge its importance."

John nodded, folding his newspaper away with the crackle of pleated pages. "Pretty much." He stacked the paper on top of the others, averting his eyes appropriately though Sherlock remained seated rather than stalking over to reclaim his property.

"You could just ask," he said, fingers unfolding in the air as his hand waited, palm up with his violin perched against his thigh in temporary repose.

Well, that had been an abysmal failure. John's face gave further evidence to the _worth-a-try_ sentiment rather than remorse as he stood up once more, rolling the ring in his hand with his thumb as he gave a quick, tactile search for engravings least the whole thing be a complete waste of effort. The ring was smooth inside and out. "You know what it means to wear a ring on your left hand?" he asked as he deposited it like a hole in the other man's palm.

"That I'm right-handed?" Sherlock closed his fingers around it and shifted as he dropped it in his trouser pocket, giving John a somewhat amused scowl though he still seemed somewhat disappointed in him. "John, details concerning marriage are important to my work and as such you can be assured I am in fact better versed in the tells of matrimony than you could ever hope to instruct me in."

John held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Okay. Just.. you know. People talk."

"And I continue to be unconcerned."

"Not a wedding ring, then," John asked as they were finally on the topic anyway.

Sherlock hummed over the hairs of his bow under his usual appraisal, his previous task returning with no further reason to cause pause. "Wedding ring? No. Just something I slipped on and as of yet have had no real reason to part with."

John sighed, at least that bit of nagging curiosity quelled after a rather botched attempt at more. He backed up into his floral chair, moving the union jack pillow as he sat in close rapport. "Okay. Just, you know, I guess I just wouldn't be that surprised if somehow you up and eloped and never spoke a word of it to me so just... just asking."

"You're asking the wrong question then," Sherlock said, his attention still invested in the intricacies of his instrument.

John frowned. "Hm?"

Sherlock set his violin to his shoulder once more, his chin delicately cradled in its rest. "You asked if that was a wedding ring. It's not," he said, fingers poised over the neck as the bow hung above the bridge to start. "But I am married."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade couldn't have called at a less opportune time. There was a murder and a foot-chase and a stop off for chips knowing the Chinese would be cold. Then Sherlock went to bed. John almost managed it himself, _almost_, save for that voice that waited until the lights were out and the sounds of the flat completely silenced before pushing aside the fantastic deductions and breathless pursuits to whisper one last thing to his tired mind: _he's married_.

It would have been a hilarious joke. Should have been. Sherlock didn't jest in that fashion, though, and wouldn't really find much humor in pretending to be married despite rebuking the idea of a wedding ring. So it was true; Sherlock Holmes was married. John kicked his blankets off with a groan as that singular thought stole every inkling towards sleep from him and replaced it with spinning concerns that simply did not have any answers.

Married. Since when? Surely not since John had moved in and yet even saying as such was a fallacy when considering the subject was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock wouldn't think anything of popping out, signing a few documents, and returning home with nothing but grief on the route of the cabby. It was all too likely, honestly. The man was a callous arse who didn't think important personal things like getting married mattered.

John rolled over in bed, punching his pillow into softness as he scowled into the night. He supposed he never did ask much about the circumstances that lead to Sherlock needing a new place to live which had cummulated in their shared residence on Baker Street. John had been invalided home from the army but Sherlock, as far as John knew, hadn't had any dire circumstances behind his needing a new home and flatmate. Living with Mycroft? Some halfway house? Had he hated a flatmate more than he liked his home? It would make all too much sense to place him in a disastrous marriage in which his wife kept the property and most of his funds tied up, allowing Sherlock to retreat to a free lifestyle of crimes and clues. It would explain why he needed a roommate even though he was quite affluent and knowing Sherlock he probably simply couldn't be arsed to follow through with paperwork. That was the easy explanation-one possible solution based on only _some_ of the evidence. He'd been spending too much time with Sherlock if even half-past four in the morning wasn't a good enough excuse for sloppy detective work.

Greg had known him for years and never mentioned a wife. Donovan had been surprised that Sherlock had a _colleague_ so at the very least he'd have had to have hidden it from NSY. Mycroft made comments on Sherlock's virginity in squabbles rather than teasing him on a failed marriage and they had both professed to a mystery in understanding Sherlock's heart. Being married _before_ meeting John fit with the circumstances but was ill-fashioned to explain anything of substance relating to the man and those who knew him.

So it seemed he'd married in the years since John'd met him. And didn't say anything. To anyone. Not even to John.

To be honest, that hurt. It hurt a lot. Even if it wasn't anything more than speculation, it was a very real possibility which painted their friendship as less meaningful than John had always felt it was. It was sleep-depriving in its echos, little stabs in his gut and chest that were cold and left him numb. Sherlock knew better. Surely he did. So why on earth did he hide this part of himself from John? Was he embarrassed? Was he ashamed? Was there some kind of secret to be kept in his wife's identity that forced him to suppression? He simply could not know without asking and sadly Sherlock was a terribly unreliable narrator of even his own life's story.

Giving up on sleep, John threw his legs over the side of the bed and set his sights on the kitchen to get a glass of water. His throat was dry and stomach sour from all the unwanted thoughts. He'd call it heartburn if it bothered to feel like fire but instead it was cold, a belly full of ice and overflowing up his throat with a taste like boiled eggs' smelled. He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and slowly took the stairs down to the first floor of the flat, careful of the one floorboard that creaked on the third step up. He went through the den rather than straight through to the kitchen on tired feet that followed the path on instinct. The violin was still on its stand rather than the case from their hurried departure, white pages of music still splayed over the black frame by the darkened window. John's chair was sitting back, waiting for the performance that never came while Sherlock's was pulled aside to set the empty stage. He could smell the spices of the Chinese left on the counter. His bare feet were cold against the floor. In the fridge there would be containers of body parts and the microwave was only permissible for human use so many days out of the month.

John could lose all this. He'd never really thought of it before, never considered it a possibility. But if Sherlock was married it stood to reason that at any time the man might decide he didn't want to live with John anymore and leave him for his marriage bed. The idea of it just felt... _wrong_ on a level both conscious and subconscious. It wasn't as though John didn't have alternatives if something like that should happen but somehow the thought had never occurred to him that he might one day wake up and all the thrill and excitement of their life together be stolen away on the pretense of love. Sherlock was John's constant, something reliable and always there. Something, apparently, to be taken for granted. The thought didn't settle any of the cold bile stirring in his gut.

Never once did it occur to John that Sherlock might be the first of them to move on. Not once. Even the times he teased about Ms. Adler stopped short of what Sherlock finding love might actually mean for them. No more unscheduled performances at home, no more arguments over the kitchen, no more simple understanding that when Lestrade called it was meant as an invitation for both of them. They'd have to coordinate if they were apart. Sherlock didn't think about things like that when on the run. He'd forget about John. That's just the way he was-obsessive and single-minded and neglectful when busy. If this was all some joke about being married to his work, John was going to strangle him. He felt positively ill just thinking about all the things a marriage could mean which could disrupt the life they loved.

Sherlock was supposed to be the selfish one. Gripping the glass in his hand, tap turned till only a trickle of cold water spilled out, John was having a hard time reconciling that with the flowing thoughts pouring out of his head.

* * *

"Rough night?"

John sputtered awake, dreams forgotten as his mind shifted from fantasy to reality as if by a flipped switch. He was on the couch, face down in a cushion with half his body hanging off the side and onto the floor. He didn't remember laying down let alone sleeping and yet the sun was falling in through the windows with day having followed the night somewhere between headache and heartache. He groaned, turning his face into the squeaky leather. He hadn't slept near enough to escape the stupid worries that had made the initial sleep so difficult to find.

Taking his primitive sounds as an affirmative, Sherlock left John to his couch repose, tapping his heels with the day's paper before dropping it on the table in an arching trajectory towards the kitchen doors. John could hear him fill the kettle and set it to boil. "The mirtazapine is in the bathroom," he called back to the tinkle of glassware.

John knew exactly where his antidepressants where, thank you. It was more than a little insulting to be reminded. "You'd know," he shot back, knowingly childish but far from caring. He could see Sherlock arching his brow in his mind's eye as he let his face rub against the cool upholstery.

"Testy this morning, aren't we?" the detective said in jest. There was more rummaging in the kitchen, maybe toast, maybe leftovers. The crinkle and thwaps of breakfast were a menagerie of possibilities. "You don't normally have trouble sleeping after a case."

"Yeah, well, I did this time. Just not feeling so great.

Sherlock was quiet, the sounds from the kitchen muting slightly as well. John sighed into the rumble of traffic outside, the permeation of the city sounds within the silence that were no different from the sounds of his own breathing. The toast popped up-toast it was then. He hadn't been hungry but he felt he could be persuaded. "Couple slices for me too, yeah?"

"Will you take the mirtazapine and get some sleep if I do? As a sleep aid," he followed up quickly, as though heading off the argument he could feel himself instigating. "I'm not insinuating anything. Though you _were_ a bit off your game last night."

John rolled over, pulling a pillow over his eyes as he sank more comfortably into the couch on his back with all four limbs safely contained by it. "Just couldn't shut my brain off is all," he explained.

Sherlock scoffed in the other room. "If even I can manage that feat now and then, there's no reason why you shouldn't be able to."

"You talk to your wife like that?" John asked, chuckling despite himself. "Gatta tell ya, it gets on most people's tits when you go the whole better-than-you route in a conversation."

There was silence in the kitchen, the popping of more toast almost too loud in the absence of other movement and speech. John peeked out under the pillow but could see nothing but shadows in the other room through the painted glass walls. He heard as much as saw Sherlock pace around in the kitchen getting the tea service set and plates added to a tray. He closed his eyes and pretended not to have been watching while Sherlock placed the tray on the coffee table and set a heavy mug and plate on top of the piles of papers and magazines. There was the rattle of a pill case and then Sherlock was standing again, over to the table in the den to sit before his laptop per usual with his own light meal. John peeked once more and glared slightly at the precisely jam-brushed toast, the perfect milky tea and, grudgingly, the aged prescription bottle with his name on it which was more often shared between them.

"Get some sleep," Sherlock said around his first crumbly bite, eyes locking on the screen before him and back-lit by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. "You're annoying."

"You're married."

Sherlock shrugged. "It hadn't made a difference before you knew, I don't see why it should make a difference now."

With a long sigh and no strength to fuel a go at it, John sat up and unscrewed the cap to the medication to swallow with a hearty swig of tea. There was no arguing with Sherlock and no guarantee of a peaceful sleep to be had even if he did. It seemed to please Sherlock either way as he watched and made sure the pill was swallowed before his gaze fell back to his laptop.

John frowned at the pill case, a rouge thought running through his mind as he set it down next to the Times and the Telegraph. "You didn't swap out the pills and just get me to take something else did you?"

Sherlock shrugged, hiding a smirk behind his mug. "I guess we'll know in about fifteen minutes."

John threw his pillow at him. They both grumbled and laughed. Fifteen minutes later John was out cold on the couch, drooling against the leather in a dreamless sleep that felt like a black hole had opened up inside him and engulfed everything he'd ever kept within his mind.

At three he woke up in his own bed, tucked under covers with a glass of water at his bedside and not a memory in recognition for how he'd ended up there.


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn't going to allow for another sleepless night. He came down for tea with purpose in his steps to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table with a few petri dishes and assorted scientific utensils out before him. It was going to be one of _those_ evenings, then. John much preferred the days when boredom was dealt with in the accompaniment of song rather than a variety of fungi and other cultures. He supposed he couldn't expect Sherlock to pick up from where they'd left off the night before. John certainly intended to, though.

Dressed in a white button-down rather than his customary lounge wear, Sherlock seemed to have made the most of the day despite all plans to stay indoors. Residual high, his mood still elevated on the pleasure of a well-solved case and a hobby to occupy the problem solving side of his mind. He more or less ignored John as he came into the kitchen no better dressed than having rolled out of bed, the scientist's steady hands requiring his attention more so than his flatmate entering a room. Making the most of the day obviously hadn't included washing the dishes from breakfast or emptying out the kettle. John frowned at them, knowing full well who was expected to deal with the small stack of plates and mugs. He rinsed them with the stagnant water from the kettle before setting it under the tap to refill and set once more to boil. It gave him a task in the interim which kept his back turned from Sherlock's seated figure. It was much easier to talk about some things when only the sound of his voice mattered.

John rolled up his sleeves before grabbing a small rag. The stuck-on jam was already annoying him and he hadn't even tried scrubbing it off yet. "So, when do I meet her?" he asked, speaking over the rush of the tap as hot water splashed against the plates.

Sherlock's response was unsurprising. "Meet whom?"

"Your wife."

"Still on that, are you?" John heard the squeak of Sherlock's chair as he leaned back, catching the change in weight distribution in the way the chair legs drummed on the tile. Sherlock would perhaps be impressed if their conversation had anything to do with aural clues and body placement. "Why does it matter so much?" Sherlock asked, sounding tired and bored and not in the least bit guilty.

It was annoying. "Why does it matter that you got married and didn't tell me? Do I really need to explain it to you?"

"What is it you want, John?"

John shrugged, finally getting the jam off with the strength of his thumbnail while the rag washed away the film of butter. "I don't know. A name. A picture. A story about how the two of you met, maybe?" He turned the tap on to rinse the dishes, his frustration very unlike the streams of water that rolled down and dissipated through the drain. "I have introduced you to every girl I've dated and yet I haven't a clue who you married. Can you see how maybe that's a little unfair?"

"I never asked to meet the girls you were dating," Sherlock said in weak defense.

"Sherlock, you invited yourself on my dates!"

"Well, it was important."

"And you falling in love and getting married isn't?" John turned around, scowling with impunity to find Sherlock sitting sideways in his chair, facing John with his arm casually bent across the top. The dark ring was gleaming in the overhead light from its customary placement on his hand but still not brighter than the intensity in Sherlock's pale eyes.

John had been wrong; there _was_ a bit of guilt there though it was masked with an overall expression of disappointment. Disappointed in him? John could not fathom the line of thought the genius detective would have to follow for him to feel anything but indebted to John with information.

Sherlock worried his bottom lip, the plump line of pink pulling thin under his teeth. "Look, I did consider discussing it with you but I didn't think it was... appropriate," he settled for, looking displeased with the choice of words all the same. "You would have had reservations and I preferred the idea of secrecy over disregard."

John's hairline raised in surprise. "I would have had reservations? Me? So I know her, then." or at least that was one possibility. Still, who did John know who liked Sherlock? Only Molly really came to mind of the living and if she had somehow managed to keep it a secret then she really was deserving of merit there. But no, no, Molly wore her heart on her sleeve and would have been more than obvious about such ceremonious tidings. If not for love, then, who did John know who would best benefit from a marriage to Sherlock? "... _Mrs. Hudson_?"

It was a shot in the dark and rather worth it for the way Sherlock's face pinched in utter dismay, forehead wrinkled and nostrils flared. "John, this is not a guessing game and no, I have not married a geriatric."

"You can't tell me I probably wouldn't like your wife and then not tell me who she is. You do realize that is going to drive me insane, yes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing up from his chair to walk away, raking his fingers through the fluff of curls on his head till they danced like weeds and fluttered still with the reverberations even after his fingers fled. "Oh for god's sake, it's not important!"

"Fantastic, then," John said as he followed, the red light on the kettle announcing the water's boil though they were both making steps towards the den. "If it's not important, there's no reason not to tell me."

Sherlock let his arms flop to his sides like a frustrated penguin, his fingers curling in on his palms in irritation and annoyance as he turned to John, his sudden lack of forward progress causing them to almost collide head-on as John continued to follow. "You," he said, his nose inches from John's and far inside any semblance of a personal bubble.

John stalled, pulling his face back towards his neck in a turtle-like recoil as he waited for the rest of the sentence. There wasn't one and Sherlock did not move. "What?"

"You. I am married to _you_."

"... _What_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stepping back as he spun and walked towards the window nearest his chair, arms up beside his head. "I told you you'd have reservations."

"Hold on. What?" John's mind was like a dead car battery leaving the engine to sputter and fail. "No, Sherlock, we're not-you and I are not married."

Sherlock shrugged his facial features in an all too familiar and not at all inspiring expression of well-informed discord. He rocked back on his heels, no longer a vision of stoicism in his avoidance but childlike in his reveal.

John stood still on the rug beside his own chair, his jaw heavy and hanging low, accompanied by his shoulders and neck. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

The detective shrugged. "Breaking and entering, hacking and a bit of forgery. Otherwise, it's all perfectly legal."

Oh, dear god. "You can't be serious." Yes, he could. "This has got to a joke." Possible but not likely. "You're not funny, you know that, yeah?"

"It's not exactly intended to be funny. Honestly, I knew you'd react like this," Sherlock said in his defense, not at all helping his case as he disproved any grounds for ignorance.

John put a hand out to steady himself on his chair, fingers white against the plaid throw. "And yet you still did it," he pointed out, quite sure he was technically yelling. "That is a fantastic display of your complete disregard for anyone but yourself."

Sherlock all but growled in exasperation. "You're not looking at it properly," he cried, his lithe body contorting in gestures of vexation. "This way, regardless of circumstances, you are permitted to make medical decisions on my behalf which, given our choice in profession, should come in handy. My fortune defaults to you rather than Mycroft should anything happen to me which is honestly in everyone's best interest as Mycroft certainly doesn't need it. There are plenty of ways in which our lifestyle is affected positively by our being married and literally no fallout. Well, excepting your disapproval and obvious annoyance with me."

"It's _marriage_, Sherlock."

"And it is the most effective way to mutually share personal, legally protected privileges and responsibilities without either of us coming under the thumb of the other."

John pursed his lips together, trying to remember to breathe as he glared across the room, not really trusting himself to move closer. "And when exactly were you going to tell me?" he asked, almost certain he knew the answer before ever expending the energy to speak it.

Sherlock shrugged. "Honestly, I hadn't planned on telling you at all. If anything happened you'd obviously find out about it but circumstances would probably make you look upon the surprise as a pleasant bit of foresight on my part."

Yes, that was very much what he'd thought. John smirked, shaking his head in the lack of disbelief he was experiencing in the whole of their conversation. "And what if I wanted to get married to someone else?"

"Then I'd break in, do a bit of hacking, and delete my forgery. Really, John, there's nothing to be upset about."

John had a short laugh at that. "You are amazing, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head as he looked to the ceiling. "Really and truly, you are. How long have we been married?"

Sherlock's lips twisted curiously. "Legally or technically?"

"Why is there a difference?"

"I didn't want to have to remember another date so I put us as having been married on January the 6th. Much easier than... well, whenever it was I broke in. Eight months ago or so. February, I think." Sherlock plopped himself in his chair, legs hanging over the arm in a concentrated effort to show how not a big deal it all was.

"February?" John cocked his head, hand gesturing out towards Sherlock's left hand. "You only just started wearing that stupid ring, though," he said, gaining half a step in his direction as he looked down at his impossible companion. _Husband!_

"I did say it wasn't a wedding ring," Sherlock reminded him, his thumb turning the gunmetal grey band like a dial.

John laughed, perhaps the slightest bit of hysteria sneaking in, as he walked back to the kitchen for a beer.


	4. Chapter 4

John still needed a beer, and several of them, when he met with Greg Lestrade for drinks the following evening as they did on occasion. It never really heralded good news. Problems with involvement from higher up, some questionable morality and issues of good conscious-there was quite an assortment of reasons really why they might need to talk over a pint as Sherlock's PA and Detective Inspector. Still, John liked him. He respected him. It was difficult to preface any meeting as simply one between two men of a mutual acquaintance without bringing in their respective titles but John still considered him a friend and valued his input on most things dealing with Sherlock. Greg had heard and seen just about everything the strange man could put out there. John was rather sure he might still surprise him yet with this one, though.

"I'm going to tell you something and you are going to keep it a secret."

Lestrade nodded as he pulled up closer to the table, elbows up and glass in hand with his shirt collar crooked under the neck of his jacket. He looked tired but intrigued, neither of which were a surprise on a Thursday. "Alright. Fair enough," he said. He took a sip in preparation, cool foam settling on his evening stubble.

John let out a shallow breath, lips licked and jaw set in expectation for either laughter or general jest. He was well aware it sounded ridiculous but still held hope that Lestrade's profession would earn him empathy over ridicule. "Sherlock and I are married," he said.

What he got was indeed understanding but far from the response he wanted and much closer to the one he was worried about. "Congratulations," Lestrade stated with a tip of his pint. "Rather thought I'd be invited to the wedding, though."

"What?" John scowled, his eyes squinting into puffy slits as he shook his head in dismay. "No, I mean Sherlock went and committed several felonies and has in doing so made us legally married without my having known about it."

Lestrade's frown pinched only slightly with concern. "You sure about that?"

"He confessed to the crime and spent the following half hour trying to convince me of why I should be happy he took matters into his own hands."

"If he's looking for your approval then yeah, he's done it." Lestrade took another deep drink, his silver hair testament to many years of both being surprised and in fact not being surprised at all at the kinds of things Sherlock could be held responsible for.

There was laughter from the corner, the bubbly sound of a woman's giggle with the underlying base of a man's. Most of the other men and women around them showed signs of a hard day's work in their somber, almost mournful behavior but on occasion a bit of mirth pulled up through the monotony. The Pig and Whistle was probably John's favorite evening haunt when meeting old friends or sitting down with new ones. Quiet, working class, great chips, and they favored the rugby. He couldn't ask for much more and being close to walking distance if the night was nice enough made for an extended reprieve if he needed to get some air. Their stout on tap was rather good as well.

"Wouldn't take much to pull up public records and get a look at the certificate yourself. What do you need me for?" Lestrade asked, his bitter more than half gone already.

John sighed, fingers tapping in irritation on his glass. "I need a second opinion," he all but whispered, embarrassed by his own admission.

"On what? You being married to Sherlock?"

"He makes a good case," he admitted with no pride lost. "I am pissed as hell about it but it's... Obviously he's biased but he's also a genius and all this is based on very logical conclusions whereas all I can think of is Jesus Christ, I'm married to a bloke."

Lestrade nodded sagely, lips thin in thought. "You two have a lot of issues getting by without a marriage?"

"Honestly?" John shrugged, eyes downcast on the nicked surface of the table. "Maybe a bit. Mycroft pulls a string here and there but Sherlock's main concern seems to be having to rely on Mycroft at all. If Mycroft's indisposed, I'm stuck in a waiting room or denied access to his bank accounts where all our business checks are deposited. I mean, Sherlock's livelihood is my livelihood and something happening to him would be... I'd be stuck. And completely reliant on Mycroft to get my share of our shared assets. Our business isn't exactly normal and a lot of the business agreements between Sherlock and myself never make it to paper. Being married is one document that takes the place of a stack of other forms and is the only way we retain legal equality rather than having one of us recognized as dependent on the other."

"But it also means you're married."

"See, that's exactly what I keep coming back to!" John pressed his finger into the table as he jabbed at it in punctuation. It was very nice to have another voice of reason to be added to the dialogue that had passed before it. "He doesn't think it's that big a deal. It's just paperwork," he said, stronger with Greg's validation in the knowledge that it wasn't just him being stubborn on semantics.

Lestrade sat back, nodding still with a rosiness to his cheeks. "Is that the sort of thing you have to disclose when you're chatting a girl up? '_Hello, Miss. Want to come back to my place? Don't worry, my husband doesn't mind_'?"

"Jesus, I don't know." John pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as he all too easily imagined exactly what that would be like. Sherlock was a third wheel even limited to being his friend. As his _husband_? John foresaw a lengthy dry-spell indeed.

Greg took pity and bought the next round, setting two heady pints on the table while John did his best not to imagine the near fatal blow this was going to deal to his love life.

"Would you get a ring for yourself like Sherlock's?" the detective inspector asked, far from ready to leave the uncertain topic.

John shook his head, his glass cool against his lip as he knocked back another drink. "It's not a wedding ring," he corrected.

"No? What's it, then?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea. I kind of got distracted by the whole marriage thing. He swears its not a wedding ring, though."

"Yeah, pull the other one." Lestrade rolled his eyes as he leaned his elbow against the table, eyes scanning the tellies hung in the corner. "Happens to be married and just happens to wear a ring on his left hand? He's insulting both our intelligence with that one. Wonder what he'd think if _you_ started wearing a ring."

John chuckled lightly, always fond of Lestrade's snarky tone when things concerned Sherlock's ignorance or oversight. He'd more than earned the right to call Sherlock out on his behavior considering how often he took the other man's abuse.

Lestrade put his glass back on the table with a heavy _thunk_. "Well, what's done is done. You can get yourself an annulment whenever you like but it's not going to change what Sherlock did. May as well leave it and deal with it when it becomes a problem. Honestly, it's kinda sweet. For the first time since ever, Sherlock's actually given some thought into why it matters what happens to him. Cause it affects you. Sort of... misguided but romantic when you think about it."

"Just to be clear, you just put Sherlock and romance in the same context as _forced marriage_," John clarified, not nearly enough alcohol in his system to not still find most of the facts more than a little unnerving.

Lestrade seemed to sober a bit himself with that, his face growing stoic as he nodded slowly and pulled up closer to the table. "Alright. Yeah, okay. Do you need me to do something about this? It's Sherlock so I guess we all get used to these sorts of things but you're right, it's not on. He shouldn't have done it. So if there's a problem... I don't know how far you'd get him on felony charges with Big Brother hanging around but you're in your right."

John shook his head, hands out and fingers splayed in defense. "No, _no_, no, I didn't mean-No. It's fine. I mean, it's _not fine_, but it's-It's nothing I need other people involved in other than maybe for a bit of moral support. Just.. keeping it in perspective is all."

"Alright, got ya. Creepy and intrusive; not romantic."

John nodded. "Thank you," he said, as he tipped his glass back and downed it all in one last, giant gulp.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a stupid idea, a thrown away comment over liquid indulgence, and yet despite all reason not to play to childish levels of retribution, John still found himself at the jewelry counter at Argos buying a gold ring for forty pounds. Authenticity was key. It was nickel, surely, and plated thinly but it was shiny and simple and unremarkably obvious when worn on the ring finger of his own left hand. John quite liked the way it almost blended in against the fading tan of his skin so as to be more of an afterthought than the stark contrast of Sherlock's own paired flesh and metal. Subtly hadn't been part of the plan but so pleased was he with it he almost wished to take credit. All he really cared about was that it be traditional and fit perfectly bellow the bulge of his second knuckle.

Two could play at this game.

He walked out of the store wearing his not-a-wedding-ring wedding ring trying not to look too smug as he set off for home with the entirety of his plan already fulfilled in the one purchase. Despite the sales woman's assurance and his own tactile affirmation, he walked with his left hand fisted, fingers curled in to be doubly sure the ring would not find itself lost somewhere between the curb and the taxi. It was a strange accompaniment to his hand. Heavier than it looked. Awkward in the gaps between his fingers. Still, it was important to get this right if he was going to make a point. It certainly made for an interesting response to the belated question of marriage.

They hadn't spoken on it much since that night. A few angry words a week was really all John had in him if he planned to coexist in relative peace with the irritating man. They'd both defended their positions, apparently left it as a matter of simply agreeing to disagree, and the marriage itself remained uncompromised without John's direct dissension and demand for divorce. John didn't mind so much outside the principle of things the longer he had time to digest the idea. He was married to Sherlock Holmes. All the worries that had kept him up before, the concerns of being left behind due to a sudden instigation of romance, all of those were very much made void by the political institution that now resided in 221B. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere and to much the same degree neither was John. It was... comforting. John didn't delight often in security but his night of worry had made certain things which had never come to mind suddenly spring forward with alarm and a need to be addressed. If he didn't think of it as marriage, if he let himself just call it a '_partnership_' and leave semantics to the courts, it really wasn't such a bad idea. It was just a word. It was just an institution. Sherlock's blatant disrespect had really been the only objection that did not fade to grudging acceptance with time. Telling Sherlock off was rarely an effective means to proving a point. However, if there was one thing one could always rely on Sherlock for, it was to _observe_.

Which was precisely why John's largest concern was hiding his smile when it took less than three minutes for Sherlock to notice the gold band, stand scowling with confusion, and finally give up on his own methods to get straight to the obvious point. "You're wearing a ring."

John looked up at his hand as he finished hanging up his coat, shrugging nonchalant as he brought it back down without pause. "So I am," he said, walking towards his chair to pick up the laptop seated on the tea table.

Sherlock followed him physically, shadowing him from his haunt in the kitchen doorway to stand in front of him in the den. "On your dominant hand," he continued, nose wrinkled. "Why wear it on your dominant hand?"

"I don't know. Fit better there?"

The detective rolled his eyes, not so bewildered as to let flippancy slide. "The circumference of your ring fingers is of negligible difference. Why are you even wearing a ring at all?"

"I don't know. Fancied it and bought it. No real reason." John sat back, opening his computer on his lap as it hummed back to life with beeps and rolling screens. It was damn hard not to smirk as he threw the words right back at his friend, the swell of indignation in his chest the only anchor heavy enough to ground him to his present point. He paused in motion as though he'd just had a thought, inclining his face towards Sherlock with a look of practiced virtue. "Oh, that reminds me, though. I've thought long and hard on it and I think, for now, we'll just stick to the marriage thing," he said, then rolled his attention back down to his laptop screen and carried on as though that were the end of it, enough said, now go and make us a cuppa.

Sherlock did not move. He stood there still, staring, and as much as John would have loved to have seen the look on his face, he felt much more inclined to carry on with the ruse of checking his e-mail and an utter adherence to passivity. He could see Sherlock's thumb toying with his own dark ring, rotating it around his finger in idle sweeps. Conscious of it, conscious of John's, mind stuck in the details. Two married men both wearing rings on their left hand-was it too real now? Did it make sense why little things like being married and wearing rings on the left hand mattered? It wasn't worth asking, he'd simply become indignant, but oh how the thought of those conflicting matters of sentiment made John's chest swell. Best forty quid he'd ever spent.

He didn't intend to wear it for very long-just long enough to make sure Sherlock had at the very least concluded the relevance and validity of John's point-of-view. A few weeks maybe. It was vital that he wear it as often as Sherlock did but it was a small price to pay to teach a childish man a lesson. Lestrade noticed on their soonest case after but was a good enough straight-man to keep his reaction down to a wink. Sherlock maintained a terrible mood throughout. Apparently it was only acceptable when _he_ was the one making all the decisions and playing into ambiguity. Tough. John had absolutely no intention of taking his ring off so long as Sherlock wore his own. Not for those few weeks at any rate.

Funny how a few weeks can fly by without notice. They say it takes about three to form a new habit and not to fall too far from the average, John found the weight and presence of the ring to be easier accepted than denied after twenty-one days-or thereabouts. There was never a moment when it seemed to him to be the day to leave the ring behind. He just didn't take it off. He liked it. It was his own money he'd be wasting if he took it off so in the end the ring just stayed there even as it garnered no more notice from either Sherlock nor himself. What was far more noticeable were the soliciting letters in the mail addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Holmes" that made John's skin crawl. The magazines for "Mrs. Watson" helped balance that out a little. It was even starting to become almost funny save for the way it further confused Mrs. Hudson who now had her own pair of "married ones" whom insisted on two rooms. Outside Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade, it was a secret only the mass-mailers shared. No one else knew because no one else needed to know. Mycroft was simply a given and needn't be acknowledged in the least.

"Are you Mr. Holmes today or am I?" John asked as he sorted through the mail.

Sherlock didn't even bother looking up from his laptop screen. "Depends on the contents," he said, fingers busy typing other words entirely and at a pace John could admire but never achieve.

"Bill, bill, donation plea, and a check."

"Yours."

John nodded, slicing through and sorting it all out-the bills for later and the check for deposit. The joint checking account was an absolute dream when it came to being Sherlock Holmes's assistant. No more final notices because Sherlock forgot to pay his bills when caught up in the excitement of cases. No more having to bug the man for his share when a client handed off a hefty sum. It had always gone first into one account but now it was _their_ account. John had the rights to everything in their finances and even though it had never been a large enough complaint in the past to ever be worth noting, the ease he now enjoyed in the their simplified arrangement made anything else a downright hassle.

It had been a good month, really. Same as any other before it. They'd been busy with cases and the rest of the minor details that made up the other hours of their lives. Being married hadn't really been a factor. It was much more like being trusted completely by ones' best friend in every detail and facet of life. And it just _worked_ for them. Completely. John didn't even mind that Sherlock wore a ring as though it were a real marriage. John did too. John's own reasons had been stupid before the habit grew and so it was very easy indeed to forgive Sherlock whatever excuse he still clung to. It wasn't as though the detective was in love with John. And even if he was, after a month of him knowing and many months before when he did not, Sherlock hadn't wanted or asked for anything other than the rights and privileges that served them both.

John's text alert caused the phone to buzz from its spot on the coffee table. He picked it up, reading the message caught on the screen. "Huh... Bill's going to be in London tonight."

Sherlock looked up at the mantle where the skull sat silently before his posture ticked with understanding and he returned once more to his typing. "Mr. Murray hasn't been in the picture for quite some time," he remarked.

"Yeah, well, he's still on tour these days." John smiled slightly as he texted back, thumbs just as unsure as his fingers were when it came to finding the desired letters. "Looks like I've got plans. Any interest in tagging along?"

"None."

Unsurprising. John smiled a little deeper, sending away his quick response with a small surge of anticipation. It'd been ages since he'd gotten to have a proper chat with his old soldier friend. Comrades in arms always had stories to retell and memories to laugh over. It sounded like a brilliant way to spend the evening. He couldn't think of much better. "You want me to pick you anything up while I'm out, then? Food? Just.. stuff?"

Sherlock shook his head. He still hadn't bothered to change out of his pajamas despite the fact that it was well past noon. His blue dressing-gown hung heavy off his shoulders. "I'm expecting a call from Lestrade with some form of interest today. Keep your phone handy. I might need to summon you."

John smirked as he stood, putting the check in his wallet as he walked around to Sherlock's side. "Nothing short of an eight," he instructed, tussling the already messy curls as he settled on his own plans for the day.


End file.
